


Another Perfect Day

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Character Death, Gen, M/M, Melodrama, Zombie-Related Melodrama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-28
Updated: 2005-11-28
Packaged: 2018-11-11 11:47:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11147769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: A mysterious disease is sweeping through the Grapefruit League, and teams are being felled one by one. Can Brian McCann save the world? Okay, just the Grapefruit League? Or will the mystery disease prevail?





	Another Perfect Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thekatcameback](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekatcameback/gifts).



> I just found this on my external HD. It's very old and also very bad. It's also technically unfinished but there's like 11k of it so whatever.
> 
> Title from the song by American Hi-Fi. As if this thing wasn't dated enough.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

Brian McCann trots into the clubhouse, wiping a damp washrag over the back of his neck, tight and hot after baking under the Florida sun; even with the light cloud cover today, Brian's sure he'll be peeling by this time tomorrow. When he touches his fingertips to the back of his hand, his skin is flush with heat.

"Goddamn, 's a fuckin' oven out there." Brian rips off his mask and slings it into his locker, wiping the rag over his forehead, squeezing a few drops of cool, luxuriant drops of water onto his face.

"Goddamn heatwave," mutters Chipper, stripped to his boxers in his stall, blond hair matted to his forehead, face an unusually lobster-bright shade of red today, not his usual cheery pink.

"Wish it'd fucking rain already," Brian says, reaching up to his collar, unbuttoning his jersey and shrugging out of it, dropping it in a heap by his feet. "Anyone care to join me in a rain dance out on the berm in ten minutes?"

Jeff Francoeur, a wax cup of ice cubes clutched in one hand, is fanning himself with a makeshift paper fan, his neck and chest already burned, angry blotches of red where white should be. " 's a fuckin' sauna in here," Jeff complains, fanning himself, reaching into his locker for his water bottle. He finds it and rips off the cap, guzzling a few mouthfuls before splashing it into his face and onto his inexplicably sunburnt chest.

"Thermostat reads seventy-two degreees," Chipper grumbles, giving the plastic casing an angry whack. He backs away from the wall and tugs on his undershirt, pulling it up over his head.

"Dude, your back," Brian says, grabbing the collar of Chipper's shirt, tugging it up. 

"What?" Chipper exclaims, muffled by cotton. "What's wrong?" Chipper tries to turn to see what's being reflected in the clubhouse's full length mirror, but Brian puts his hands on his shoulders.

"Stop moving so much!" Brian squeezes down and Chipper hisses in pain. "Looks like a nasty sunburn." Brian touches one of the blisters on Chipper's back, and the third baseman squirms away.

"On my _back_?" Chipper complains, reaching back to touch it himself.

"I don't know. It's the only explanation." Brian pulls Chipper's shirt back down and smoothes it over his back as gently as possible. "You better get Dr. Elliot to look at that, man. Sunburn? In seventy degree weather? Without a hint of sun? Strikes me as a little weird, don'cha think?"

"Maybe it's not sunburn," Jeff says.

Brian and Chipper turn to look at Jeff. His chest is as red as the 'Braves' on the front of their jerseys, blistering and cracking, peeling. Brian looks at Jeff's hands, because Jeff's hands are the first thing he always notices on him, and they're shaking uncontrollably.

"Wh-what do you think it is?" Brian asks, shaking as much on the inside as Jeff is on the outside.

"I don't know." Jeff presses a cool washcloth to his face and when he pulls it back, it's spotted with blood.

"What the hell is going on here?" Chipper snatches the cloth away, inspecting it closely. "This is fucking . . . fucked up, man. _What the fuck is going on_?"

Brian moves closer and touches one of the blisters on Jeff's forehead. Jeff recoils, wincing, and locks a hand around Brian's wrist. His fingers are cracked at the joints and bleeding too, and Brian sucks back a sickeningly hollow feeling clogging up his throat.

The clubhouse doors burst open with an explosion of metal-on-metal and John Smoltz rushes in, his jersey untucked and spotted with blood as well. 

"Smoltzy, what the hell is going on?" Chipper wails, spitting blood.

Smoltz is pale and drawn, but there are no blisters or sores to be seen. Truth be told, he just looks like he's seen a ghost. "I'm not sure, but . . . Turn on the TV set, guys."

Brian grabs the remote and flips the TV to the news channel. 

". . . and we've just been informed that a heatwave has ripped through the state of Florida. The governor has issued a warning to stay indoors if at all possible, and if you must venture outside, please take the utmost prec -- "

Chipper turns away from the TV set, gently lifting his t-shirt up over his head. Blistered skin clings to the soft, once-white cotton material, leaving his back raw and bloody. Streams of blood river down his torn back, disappearing into the waist of his pants. 

Brian tries not to gag at the sight of it, and instead turns to Jeff. His chest is just as blistered as Chipper's back, and his hands are cracked and bleeding. Brian looks down and sees Jeff's bloody fingerprints on his own wrist. 

"What's happening to us, Bri?" Jeff's eyelids are swollen and red, and his lashes are sticking together in black clumps, thick with his own blood.

"I . . . I don't know," Brian stammers, "but whatever it is, I don't think it's a heatwave."

"What do you think it _is_ then?" Smoltz asks, slapping at a bug bite on his neck.

"Maybe something . . . with radiation? I don't know." Brian swallows at the lump in his throat and turns his eyes away from Jeff's chest, fighting the rise of bile. 

"Radiation? How is that even possible?" Chipper lay slumped in his locker, his red face swollen and puffy, and the skin around his mouth cracked, oozing blood. His hands are covered in sores, and when he moves them from his lap, Brian can see bits of skin stick to his pants like barbecued chicken to a paper napkin.

Brian swallows, and inexplicably, his eyes water. He blinks them, goes dizzy, and looks down at the ground, trying to reanchor himself, his mind, his thoughts. "Where's Doc Elliot?" he asks, softly.

"Doc Elliot is dead." Tim Hudson staggers into the clubhouse, dragging the unresponsive body of the team doctor behind him. 

Huddy lays the good doctor out in front of his locker, and Brian can see the same sores and blisters poking out from under his starched collar, the same sores and blisters that are afflicting Chipper and Jeff . . . and now Smoltzy, who is rubbing at a blister on his neck.

"What the fuck is happening to us?" Jeff whimpers, choking on his own blood; it spills out of his mouth, down his chin, and Brian grabs the pink-tinted washcloth, wiping it off of his face. Jeff turns his head and Brian smears a streak of blood across his cheek. "Don't, Brian."

"I want to," Brian whispers, squeezing it in his hands. Droplets of blood-tinted water drip drip drip to the carpet. "We're going to find out what's going on, Jeff, and we're going to -- "

"We're _dying_ , Brian," Jeff chokes, red tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. "I'm dying, Chipper is dying! We're all going to die!"

"Don't talk like that! There must be a way to fix this! To change it," Brian cries, desperately. "I'll save you."

Chipper spits a mouthful of blood at Brian's feet. "In that case, I'd rather die," he snaps, turning and stomping in the opposite direction.

Brian looks at Smoltzy for help. "I'm only trying to help, John," he says, softly.

"I know, kid," Smoltzy says, rubbing at his neck. "I know." 

\--

Brian sits slumped in his locker, with Jeff's head resting on his knee. Every now and then he'll pause to squeeze a few drops of water onto Jeff's forehead and brush his fingers through his hair. Jeff's eyeballs move under his closed lids, caught deep in a feverish dream. Sometimes his mouth moves, makes out words that Brian can't hear or understand.

Jeff opens his eyes and Brian reaches down to brush his hair away from his forehead, tenderly. "B-Bri?" Jeff manages, curling his bleeding fingers around Brian's hand.

"What is it?" Brian asks.

Jeff coughs and bubbles of blood gather at the corners of his mouth. Brian turns his eyes to Jeff's throat, the only place on him not scored or scarred. "We need to figure something out before it's too late," he says, clutching onto Brian's hand. He glances at Chipper, swollen with sores, open bleeding wounds obscuring what had once been a friendly face. "He's going to die if we don't figure something out. And soon."

"You're in no condition to be worrying about anyone else," Brian says, lowering his voice to a whisper.

"Chipper is our brother," Jeff insists, quietly. "We can't let him die."

"But _how_?" Brian asks, clutching to Jeff's hands, his own sticky with blood. 

"There has to be a way to reverse the effects or something," Jeff insists, struggling to sit up. The team doctor's corpse is still laying in the corner of the room, draped with his lab coat, starched white fabric tinted pink with blood -- _whose_ blood, Brian isn't quite sure. 

"Maybe Doc Elliot has something in his office," Brian says, shrugging his shoulders. "Maybe some sort of . . . medicine? Although I don't think he anticipated something quite like this."

Jeff gives Brian a gentle push out of his locker. "Go on, go look in Doc's office. We can't waste any time."

Brian nods, getting up and sneaking another glance at Chipper. "Okay. I'll be back as soon as possble." Brian gives Jeff's hand a gentle squeeze, before heading off for the doctor's office.

\--

All the sounds of the stadium are more pronounced when you're alone -- and guys are dying of some weird disease. The dripping of water sounds ten thousand times louder, the roars of fans sound hungrier and more carnivorous (than they usually are), and the damp chill settles around you like a tight fist.

Brian tries not to let it bother him too much, but how can he not? It's the kind of thing that gets inside you, grabs ahold of you and shakes you until your brains are scrambled like eggs and you can't see or think straight.

The brass nameplate on Doc Elliot's door is crooked and bent, and Brian can see flecks of blood dotting the shiny surface. He swallows and pushes the door open, afraid of what he might find.

A landslide of papers is spilling out of the good doctor's filing cabinet, a smeared bloody handprint marring the sleek gray metal. Brian can feel his heartbeat fluttering in his chest, and his palms are slick wiith sweat, sliding over the doctor's mahogany desktop.

The glass vials he'd seen before are arranged beside a picture of the doctor and his family in matching mouse ears.

"Thank God for small miracles," Brian whispers to himself, although he doesn't know quite why he's whispering, and grabs one of the vials, tucking it into his pocket. He reaches out to grab the second one when he hears faint rustling behind him. "Who's there?" Brian turns around.

Chipper is leaning against the doorframe shirtless, blood smeared over his chest, a strange, crooked smile ticking up the corner of his mouth. "Whatcha got there, Heap?" he asks, kindly, but there's something about this tone that sends a shiver down Brian's spine.

"I found the antidote!" Brian holds up the vial, running up to Chipper. "Let's get this back to the guys!"

Chipper puts a bloody hand on Brian's shoulder. "Give me the vial, Heap."

"Well, we can just take it back together," Brian smiles, vacantly.

Chipper closes a bloodslick hand around the vial, prying it from Brian's fingers. " _We're_ not goin' anywhere, Heap."

"But Chipper, we need -- "

Chipper closes his hand around Brian's neck, with surprising brute force, his smile more twisted and evil, his eyes filmy, _dead_ looking. The skin around his mouth is cracked and bleeding, and when he speaks, thick red blood oozes out. "Give me the vial."

Brian jerks in Chipper's grip, flailing, trying to fight off his attack. "Chipper! No!" He closes his hand around a paperweight on Doc's desk and brings it down on Chipper's once friendly, now very dead face.

Brian hears the sick, wet crack of skull meeting the paperweight, and tastes the coppery tang of blood on his mouth. "Oh Jesus, oh fuck." 

The hand around Brian's throat loosens and he leaps away, falling into Doc's coat rack. He wipes his face on one of the doctor's smocks, desparate to get the taste of his teammate's tainted blood out of his mouth.

Brian stuffs the vial into his pants pocket, tears stinging his eyes, and leaps over Chipper's body, feet slipping in the pool of blood spreading steadily under the third baseman. " 'm sorry, Chip," Brian feels obligated to mutter, slipping and sliding in the blood, nausea clawing its way out of his throat.

Brian closes a hand around a brass doorknob and pulls himself, on weakening legs, out of the doctor's office, and runs down the hall, tracking blood, running away from the thick smell of death.

\--

Kyle Davies crosses his arms over his chest and pouts, tapping his foot. "The hell is Brian? Thought he was s'posed to be back with the antidote," he whines. Kyle taps his foot some more until Macay McBride leans out of his locker and whacks it with his shower shoe.

"Could'ja cut that out? I'm trying to pick up the news station." He raises his mini TV in his hand. "Maybe'll tell us somethin'."

Kyle yanks his foot away from Macay and glares down at the relief pitcher, stonily. "Get your hand offa me," he sneers, petulantly. "We been waitin' how long for Brian now? Either he's got himself lost, or somethin' went wrong."

"The news woman said that there've been other cases at other teams' complexes," Mac says, peering in at the tiny screen. "Lakeland, Vero Beach, Tampa, Dunedin, Bradenton . . . Hell, the whole fuckin' Grapefruit League." Mac's eyes are hollowed out and haunted, and Kyle leans over the kid's shoulder. A camera pans to a pile of bodies clad in baseball jerseys.

"Oh fuck. The fuckin' Dodgers? The Dodgers are all dead?" Kyle whispers. The camera closes in on one of the dead Dodgers, and Kyle lets out a little squeak. "Oh, fuck no. Not Nomar!"

Mac swallows hard and mutters, " 'pparently there's more where that came from." The camera cuts to another location entirely, this time the New York Yankees' facility.

A blonde reporter in bloody pearls and cream colored suit holds a microphone to her face with a shaking hand. "We're n-now taking you live to the New York Yankees' training facility, wh-where . . . which has been the site of a d-d-devastating tragedy -- " The quality worsens, and the reporter is dissolved into static, her shaky, frightend voice stuttering, "No survivors . . ."

"Oh shit," Mac sighs, "this is bad. This is fucking horrible." He glances across the room at John Smoltz, who is rubbing at a sore on his neck, and at Jeff Francoeur, slumped over lifelessly in his stall. "We're next."

Kyle whacks Macay upside the head. "Don't talk like that! We have to think positively!" he screams, hysterics bubbling in his throat, threatening to explode out of him. "Self-fulfilling prophecy, motherfucker."

Mac rubs the back of his head and scowls. "Well, logic would dictate that we're next, considering _all_ the fucking Grapefruit League is, like, fucking cursed."

"What about the Cactus League?" Asks Joey Devine, stepping up and leaning over Kyle's shoulder. 

"Nope, just the Grapefruit League." Mac turns the TV set off.

"Fuckin' great." Kyle sighs and rubs a hand over his forehead. "What're we supposed to do? What's taking Brian so long? Maybe we should go look for him."

"I don't wanna go out there and get my ass killed!" Mac exclaims. "Brian will be fine."

Marcus GIles, the team's little second baseman, staggers into the clubhouse, his jersey torn and hanging from his body in shreds, long red scratches up and down his back, teeth marks on his abdomen. 

"Gilly! What the hell happened?" asks Reitsma.

Giles turns his blank black eyes on Reitsma, and smiles, an off-kilter, almost hungry smile. "It's pure chaos out there, Chris," he says.

Reitsma's eyes widen when he realizes Giles has blood and bits of flesh between his teeth. 

Macay McBride sighs to himself. "This can only end in bloodshed." He grabs a broken bat handle and grabs onto Joey's hand, tugging him into a corner of the clubhouse. "Dude, they're all fucking changing except us. We gotta get out of here while we still have time -- while we're safe."

Joey nods, and looks about the clubhouse for Kyle. "Where's Kyle? We gotta get out of here." Joey too has taken note of the hungry look in Giles' eyes and the blood on his lips.

Mac closes his hands around the broken baseball bat and closes his eyes the second Reitsma starts screaming, and pushes Joey and Kyle out of the clubouse. "C'mon, we have to get out of here, now!"

"What about Chris? We have to help him!" Kyle says, trying to push past Mac.

"Chris is one of them, Kyle. He has those sores all over his body. He was gonna die anyway," Joey says, fighting the sickening feeling blooming in the pit of his stomach and sweeping through him. "We need to think of ourselves. It's too late to help those poor bastards."

Kyle blinks back tears, unable to tear his eyes from the sight of Marcus, his teeth ripping into Reitsma's neck. "Fuck you guys. We have to do something." He grabs a blood-red fire extinguisher off the wall and charges. "Marcus! Let him go!"

Giles looks up in time to get the base of the fire extinguisher in his forehead. Reitsma falls back, clutching a hand to his neck, blood gushing in time with his heartbeat, which is growing fainter and fainter. Joey presses his hands to the wound to staunch the flow of blood, but the effort proves futile, and Reitsma lay in Joey's arms, dying slowly, blood stiffening his white uniform, drenching it almost black. 

Giles steps back, a thin line of blood trickling down his forehead, but largely unharmed. "You'll have to try harder than _that_ , rook," he says with a sneer.

Kyle raises the extinguisher. "Try me." 

"Don't mind if I do!" Giles tenses, preparing to attack, but he doesn't get the chance.

Smoltzy stands over Giles' body and pulls the emergency in-case-of-fire ax out of the back of Giles' skull with a sickening _thwock_. He sighs and lets it drop to the floor, soaking in Giles' blood. "Fuckin' zombies," he mutters.

The three rookies regard the elder pitcher warily, huddling together.

"Y-you killed Gilly," Mac whimpers.

"He wasn't Gilly anymore, kids," Smoltzy sighs, hefting the ax in his hands. "We've gotta find the others." He glances at the three of them. "You kids think you can handle an ax?"

"Well, I don -- " Mac cuts himself short when Reitsma pulls himself to his feet. A flap of chewed up skin hangs down from his neck, and blood is no longer gushing from the gaping wound. Mac is about to smile and greet Reitsma with a relieved hug when he realizes _why_ Reitsma's torn throat is no longer gushing blood.

His heart is no longer beating.

"Smoltzy! Look out!" Mac points and Smoltz whirls around as Reitsma descends upon him, looking just as feral and hungry as Giles did.

"Get out of here! Run!" Smoltz points to the door. "Take the back ways, to the boiler room! Get out of here!" Smoltz cries out as Reitsma sinks his teeth into his arm, and drops the ax. 

Mac grabs his two companions by the front of their jerseys and drags them out of the clubhouse.

\--

"Jeff!" Brian bursts into the clubhouse and drops to his knees beside Jeff, cradling Jeff's face in his hands. "You're alive!"

"Barely," Jeff rasps, curling his hand in Brian's shirt. "Missed you."

Brian leans down and kisses Jeff on the mouth, lightly. "I missed you too. But I'm back, and I'm never leaving you again." He squeezes his hand over Jeff's before helping him to sit up. 

Jeff groans, leaning on Brian's shoulder for support. "I knew you'd come back for me." Jeff lets out a hiss of pain as Brian applies a Band-Aid to one of the open sores on his neck.

"Well, with the antidote should you should be as good as new. We just have to find the others and get it to them before it's too late," Brian says, rubbing a hand through Jeff's hair.

Jeff pulls Brians hands down and cups his hand over Brian's cheek. "I love you, Bri. Don't ever forget that. No matter what happens."

"Nothing's going to happen to you," Brian says, firmly. "You're going to be fine. We're all going to be fine, Jeff. We're going to make it out okay." He holds up the vial containing the antidote. "We're going to make it."

Jeff leans in and kisses Brian, before taking the vial from him. "Bottoms up?" He manages a smile, as a drop of blood trickles down his cheek.

Brian leans in and wipes it away with a ball of Kleenex. "Bottoms up." He kisses Jeff on the cheek and gets up, heads to his locker to change out of his dirty, blood-stained jersey. Brian rummages through his stall, coming up with a fancy dress shirt that's ill-suited to . . . well, to zombies and flesh-eating diseases. He tosses it aside and finds a t-shirt, one of Jeff's from their rookie season. Brian smiles and begins to tug it on over his head.

Brian turns and Jeff smiles at him, raising the vial, before tipping his head back and draining the whole thing. Brian turns back and tries to pull the shirt on over his head, but it's too tight, and he can feel it straining around his frame. 

"Forget the shirt," Jeff says, with a sharky smile. "C'mere."

"Oh?" Brian smiles back and gets on his knees beside Jeff. "Whaddaya need?"

Jeff's smile widens. "You, Heap." He leans forwad and kisses Brian forcefully, sliding his tongue past Brian's lips.

Brian smiles against Jeff's mouth and puts his arms around his neck, kissing him back fiercely. "I'm so glad you're okay."

Jeff slides his hand down Brian's chest, to the waist of his pants, tugging him closer. "What did you say, 'We're going to make it'?" Jeff moves his mouth from Brian's mouth to his cheek, to his neck. 

Jeff strokes his hand down Brian's back, and Brian thrusts into his touch, and Jeff moves his mouth along Brian's bared shoulder, nipping at his skin with his teeth. He rakes his fingertips down Brian's bare back, digging deep, and Brian lets out a soft sigh, before Jeff's teeth break through skin.

"Jeff," Brian cries out, but Jeff chokes off his protests with a fist around the throat. Brian reaches up to claw at Jeff's hand, in an effort to preserve his own life, but Jeff is unfazed, only squeezes tighter.

Brian looks at Jeff's eyes, but they're not warm, no semblance of the best friend or man Brian loved. Hollow and lifeless. 

Jeff's eyes are dead.

Yet his fingers are still squeezing around Brian's tender throat, choking off his airway, and he starts to see fireworks in red and white behind his eyelids. Brian lets out a weak gasp, losing feeling in the ends of his fingers, his toes. An arm goes slack, and Jeff squeezes tighter, going for the kill, when the clubhouse door swings open.

"Jeff! Stop!" Huddy has a bat in his hand and he curls his fists around it, like a batter, crouching into his batting stance. 

Brian can't move to stop Huddy, lets out a weak, " _No_ ," still clinging to Jeff's wrist.

Huddy swings the bat, and Brian closes his eyes at the sickeningly wet sound of bat connecting with the back of Jeff's skull. Jeff immediately lets go of Brian's throat and he falls to the ground, gasping for breath, lungs burning, tears streaming.

Jeff falls over him, skull crushed like an egg, and Brian crawls away, digging his fingernails into the carpet, when a hand closes around his shoulder. 

Brian's scream is loud enough to shatter glass.

\--

Joey slumps against the radiator, bat resting comfortably between his legs. The flecks of dried blood almost look like pinetar in the dim lighting. Or, that's what he tells himself. 

"Royal flush. I win again." Mac gathers the loot into his arms and shields it with his large body, shooting Devine and Davies feral looks. "Hands off."

"I don't want it now that it's got your odor on it," Kyle snaps, tugging at the collar of his t-shirt. "It's fucking _oppressive_ down here."

"It's the safest place." Joey wraps his hands around the barrel of the bat, flicking his thumbnail at the caked blood.

"Fuck that shit," Kyle grumbles. "What about the others?"

"What about them?" Mac asks, counting through his loot, which is box of Cracker Jacks, hairspray, a stick of gum, and a lighter. But nothing to light. 

"Dude, they're our _teammates_ ," Kyle says. "Don't tell me you've already forgotten them."

"It's every man for himself down here, Kyle. You might as well accept that," Mac says, flicking the lighter on and off, shooting the other two rookies an evil glare. "Don't you two be getting ideas about my loot."

"Believe me, your loot ain't nothin' to write home about," Davies replies, rolling his eyes. A bead of sweat trickles down the back of his neck and he slaps at it, grunting in annoyance. "Fuckin' sauna."

"Well, okay. Just making sure." Mac wraps himself around his booty and eyes the other two, suspiciously.

"Okay, dude, you're, like, freaking out. An hour, two hours away from civilization and you're already turning into the kid from _Lord of the Flies_." Joey fans himself with his hands.

"I've got my eye on you two!" Mac bares his teeth and snarls.

Joey just curls his hands around the handle of his bat. 

He doesn't trust the gleam in Macay's eyes.

\--

Brian feels two warm, wet hands curl around his wrists, prying his hands away from his face. 

"Bri, it's okay." 

Brian lets his arms drop. "H-Huddy? What happened?" he whispers, trying not to look at Huddy's blood-spattered jersey, failing miserably. Jeff's blood on Huddy's jersey. Jeff's blood. Brian shies away from Huddy, trembling, naked and cold. And frightened.

Tim moves Brian's hands from his face and then a warm towel is being wrapped around Brian's shoulders, and Brian buries his cheek in Huddy's chest. "It's okay now, Brian. Everything is okay. He's dead." Huddy trails a wet, sticky hand through Brian's soft blond hair.

"Jeff," Brian whimpers, turning to look around Huddy's shoulder, but he reaches up, turning Brian's face toward the wall.

"Don't look at him, Brian. That's not Jeff. That's not our Jeff." 

"But, Jeff," Brian says, and Huddy murmurs, coos at him like his mom used to, when he had a stomach ache, and she would sit up with him, rubbing his tummy and giving him chicken soup and hot tea. Brian knots his hands in the front of Huddy's jersey and tries hard not to cry. He tries not to think about Jeff, who isn't his Jeff anymore. Dead Jeff. Zombie Jeff.

"No," Huddy says, more firmly this time, pushing Brian away from Jeff's limp body. "Jeff is gone."

"You killed him," Brian protests, weakly.

"He was dead long before that," Huddy insists, shaking Brian by the shoulders. "He died when that disease killed him, Brian. He was already dead when I took the baseball bat to his head."

Brian winces. "But . . ." He has no reply for that. He tries to look around Huddy to Jeff, but the pitcher reaches up and turns his face back to his. 

"Don't do that to yourself, kid. Focus only on me." Huddy squeezes a hand on Brian's wrist. "You have to get dressed, and we have to find the others."

"What if they're all . . . dead too?" Brian asks.

"What if they're not, and we let them _die_?" Huddy counters.

"Okay. Okay . . . It's what Jeff would'a wanted." Brian keeps his head down and shuffles to his locker, retrieving his clothes and heading for the showers.

Huddy looks down at Jeff's corpse and sighs, swallowing at the sight of the kid's crushed skull, and the blood and brains smeared all over the carpet. He picks up Jeff's blood-stained jersey and lays it gently over his head.

"Sorry, kid," he mutters, crossing himself even though he isn't Catholic. He bends down and untangles Jeff's crucifix from around his neck, pocketing it. Huddy feels a wave of sentimentality rush him, and he fights it back, biting down hard on his lip. "Sorry, kid. I had to do it." 

Brian emerges from the showers, free of blood, cheeks red and fresh-scrubbed, but his fingernails are still caked with blood. "I'm . . . I'm ready." Brian swallows thickly and turns his eyes from Jeff's shrouded form.

"Let's go." Huddy tucks the bloodied bat in the back of his pants and pulls his shirt down over it. 

Brian nods, stealing one last glance at Jeff before following Huddy out of the annihilated clubhouse.

\--

Joey, Kyle and Mac creep through the hollowed catacombs of Disney's Wide World of Sports Complex, Joey wielding a broken-off bat handle as a weapon and Kyle with two bat handles lashed together with some rope, like nunchuks. Mac has tied his loot up in a blood-soaked jersey, number 90, so no one too important, and has slung it over his shoulder.

"Nobody better be eyeballing my loot," Mac warns.

"We heard you the first five thousand times," Kyle grates out through clenched teeth, tightening his fist around his makeshift nunchuks. To Joey he hisses, "I swear to Glavine, if he says that one more time, I'm going to bash his skull in."

"Me first. I call skull bashing," Joey mutters. He lets his eyes drift to McBride's bloody sack. "It's not like it's anything important anyway. Cracker Jacks, gum and a lighter." 

"And hairspray," McBride pipes up.

"What the fuck are we going to need hairspray for? None of us have _hair_ ," Davies snaps, testily.

Mac just shrugs. "Iunno."

"There's a lot you don't know." Joey scowls and pulls up in front of a door labelled 'BRAVES CLUBHOUSE.' He raises his broken-off bat handle and motions to Kyle and Mac to come closer. "On my mark, one . . . two . . . "

Mac clutches his sack to his chest. "Wait, what?"

"On three, we storm the Bastille and take back the clubhouse," Joey says, waving the bat handle. 

"What if they're all dead?" Mac asks.

"That's just a risk we'll have to take. What if someone's back there, still alive, and needs us?" Joey slowly pushes open the door and motions to the other two to follow him.

"Hiy _ah_!" Kyle barges past Joey and Mac, nunchuks slicing through the air.

But there's nothing to fight.

There's a small fire in the corner of the clubhouse, consisting of what looks to be scouting reports. In the middle of the room is a figure draped in a bloody jersey. 

Joey sucks in a breath. "Dude, that's _Jeff's_ jersey . . ."

\--

Huddy leads the way through the catacombs of the Disney's Wide World of Sports Complex, holding a lighter above his head as a torch. Water drips off rusted pipes overhead, and Huddy swerves to make sure the droplets miss the lighter.

"Just a bit farther, and we'll be upon the back exit," he says, giving Brian a smile. "Just a bit farther."

Brian nods, clutching his sweatshirt tightly around him. His neck aches some, from where Jeff had bit him; Huddy had patched him up as best he could, and applied as much Neosporin and Band-Aids as possible, but it still hurt like hell. 

Not to mention how shitty it made Brian feel on the inside.

His plan to save Jeff had _failed_ \-- _he_ had failed Jeff. Jeff was dead because he'd grabbed the wrong vial. 

Brian sniffs back tears.

Huddy stops and glances at him, worriedly, shining the flame on Brian's face. "Kid, you're not gonna lose it on me, now are ya?" he asks.

Brian shakes his head. "No, I'm fine," he manages, but Huddy doesn't seem convinced.

"I dunno. You don't look too hot." Huddy inches closer, holding the lighter in front of him to light his way. He reaches out and puts the back of his hand against Brian's forehead. "You seem to be runnin' a bit of a fever there, kid . . . I think I got some water somewhere." He fumbles around in the backpack slung across his shoulder, before pulling out a bottled water.

"Wh-where'd you get the backpack?" Brian accepts the water and takes a sip, before splashing some of it into his face.

"It was Jeff's," he says, quietly. "I figured we could use it."

Brian swallows hard, his adam's apple ticking. ". . . I understand." His shoulders slump, the rest of him slumping along with them.

Huddy reaches out and extracts the water bottle from Brian's hand, gently, tucking it back into the pack, before giving Brian's hand a squeeze. "It's going to be okay."

"That's what I said to Jeff, before . . ." Brian falters and presses a hand to his forehead. "I would really like this just to be over now. Can it be over now?"

Huddy pulls Brian close and wraps an arm around him, patting hs hand through Brian's blood-stiffened hair, tries not to think about _whose_ blood that is. "It'll be okay. I promise you it'll be okay," he says.

"But what if we're not? What if we all die?" Brian presses his face into Huddy's shoulder, clutching his hands in the pitcher's dirty t-shirt. Huddy only makes comforting noises, smoothing his hand down the back of Brian's neck. "I'm scared, Huddy," he whispers.

"I am too, kid." Huddy sighs and steps back, patting Brian on the side of his neck, letting his fingers come to rest over the bandage. "It's okay to be scared. This is pretty fuckin' scary shit."

Brian scrubs his fists over his eyes, blinking back tears, trying his hardest not to let them go. They're for Jeff, and he never wants to let them go. "I'm fine. Let's go." He turns and continues on, Huddy at his heels.

"Wait, stop." Huddy puts a hand on Brian's shoulder, halting him, and Brian turns.

"Yeah?" he asks, weakly, wanting just to collapse, wanting just to give up and give in to whatever it was that was doing this to them, to his friends. 

"Here." Huddy reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a fist, uncurls his hand. A tiny glinting gold cross is stuck to the middle of his palm, indenting itself into Huddy's flesh. "I saved it for you." He swallows hard. "It's Jeff's."

Brian cries out and grabs it, putting it around his own neck. "Thank you," he murmurs, reaching out and grabbing Huddy's hand.

Huddy lowers his head and marches past Brian, coughing. "Alright. Let's get a move on, see if we can find some survivors."

\--

"Lift up the jersey." Kyle raises his nunchuks, muscles tense and trembling, ready to fight. "Let's see if it's Jeff."

"It could be one of . . . _Them_." Joey slashes his broken bat handle through the air. 

Mac, arms curled around his sack of loot, looks at the other two. "Well, _you_ two lift it. I'm not touching it!" he insists.

Kyle and Joey look at each other. "Let's all lift it at once," Joey says, glancing back at Mac. "That way if it _is_ one of Them, we can attack it as a group."

"Or die as a group," Mac points out.

"At least we'd die together," says Kyle.

This time it's Mac's and Joey's turns to give Kyle an odd _look_. "Uh, right," Mac says, clutching onto his bundle. "On a count'a three?"

Joey crouches down and grabs onto one of the jersey's tattered sleeves. "One . . . two . . . three . . ." He, Mac and Kyle lift back the jersey.

The three of them scream.

"That's . . . that's Jeff!" cries Joey, jumping back. "That's Jeff!"

Mac drops his bundle and stumbles back, tripping over it. "He's dead! They're all dead!" he screams.

Kyle inches forward and pokes at the corpse with his nunchuks, rolling it onto its back. It is indeed Jeff. 

Or, was indeed Jeff.

Kyle gags and looks away, eyes watering. "Oh, fuck," he mumbles, covering his face with his hands. "Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck."

Joey goes over and helps Mac to his feet, and the two of them turn back to Kyle. "I don't like this, Kyle," Joey says, rubbing a trembling Macay's back. "Let's get out of here."

"I'm going to be -- " Kyle bends over and heaves, emptying the contents of his stomach to the clubhouse floor. " -- sick." Kyle grabs the sleeve of Jeff's jersey and wipes at his mouth before he realizes what he's doing drops it, a miserable look washing out his features, drawing him pale.

Joey stamps his feet. "Come _on_ , Kyle! You can clean yourself up later."

"Okay, you're right. Let's get out of -- " Kyle moves to follow the other two out of the clubhouse when he feels a hand tapping on his shoulder. "What is it?" he asks, spinning around -- 

\-- to find himself face-to-face with Jeff Francouer.

\--

A piercing scream tears through the air and Huddy looks up sharply, squinting, wrinkling his nose.

"You hear that, Heap?" he asks, getting up from the ground, wiping his palms on his knees. 

"That sounded like . . . One of the guys." Brian grabs Huddy's bat and flips it to him. "Let's go. They could need our help." He turns to run toward the scream, but Huddy clamps a hand on Brian's elbow.

"You don't want to go rushing headlong into this, kid!" he insists, pulling him back. "We need a plan."

"Fuck plans, Huddy. We need to find them before it's too late." Brian tugs on the collar of Huddy's t-shirt, pulling him along. 

"We don't want to do anything stupid and get ourselv -- " he insists, but Brian tightens his grip and chokes off any further protests.

"We don't want to waste our time and let survivors die," he says, firmly.

"Uh, right." Huddy wrenches his collar from Brian's grip and rubs his throat. "Onward and upward." 

The two of them march on.

The screams get louder.

\--

"Do something!" Kyle screams, dangling by his collar from Not-Jeff's hands, trying not to notice how sharp his teeth look, or how hungry his eyes appear. Not-Jeff lifts him clear off the ground, and Kyle kicks his legs, struggling to wriggle free. 

"MACAY! GET OUT OF MY WAY!" Joey dives for Mac's bundle.

"No! That's _mine_!" Mac cries, shielding it with his large frame. "It's _mine_!" 

"You're going to let Kyle die because you're a selfish asshole? Get out of the way!" Joey kicks Mac in the shin and snatches the loot away, shaking the bloody jersey open, tossing aside the box of Cracker Jacks and the gum. Joey closes his hand around the lighter.

"What are you going to do, light his cigarette?" Kyle gasps, struggling desperately against Not-Jeff's unnaturally strong grip.

Joey grabs the hairspray cannister. "Kyle, get out of the way!" 

Kyle wrenches to the side, breaking free of Not-Jeff's grip, and Joey raises the hairspray cannister and the lighter, trying to steady his aim.

"Sorry, Jeff." Joey takes a deep breath, prays to whatever higher power there is that this works, raises the lighter, and presses down on the hairpsray nozzle.

The Jeff-Thing's head explodes in flames and it lets out a shriek, trying to shake the flames off. 

"Didn't the fucker ever learn how to stop, drop and roll?" Kyle wheezes, picking himself up off the ground. He spots the broken bat handle on the ground and goes searching for the other end with his hands.

"It's not _dying_ ," Mac moans.

The Jeff-Thing is rolling on the ground, screeching, and Kyle, Joey and Mac all cringe and cover their ears.

Kyle fights off the heartsick feeling settling over his chest, squeezing, squeezing until he can't breathe anymore. He scrounges through debris, blood-soaked jerseys, cracked batting helmets, torn batting gloves, before he feels the broken barrel of the bat under his fingertips.

The Jeff-Thing pulls itself up off the ground, charred and smoking, and they almost can't even tell it was once Jeff. Kyle swallows hard and raises the barrel of the bat, jagged end out.

"Jeff?" he says, and the thing turns to him.

Kyle closes his eyes and swings.

When he opens his eyes, the Jeff-Thing is still standing.

But its head is clear across the room.

The thing's body staggers there for a few seconds before crumpling in a smoking, charred heap.

Joey and Mac are curled in the corner, trembling, clutching onto one another. "Is . . . is it dead?" Mac whimpers.

Kyle stands over the smoking remains and pokes at it with the bat. "I think it's dead," he says, a deep shudder running through him. "I think it's finally dead."

Joey coughs. "Nice form there, Davies. You've been taking batting practice?"

Both Kyle and Macay turn to stare at Joey.

Joey blinks once, twice. 

And bursts into laughter. 

It starts as a low giggle at first, deep down inside, and Kyle fights it off as best he can, all things considered. Better to leave Devine rolling around on the floor like a hysterical moron all by himself.

But pretty soon Kyle is laughing too, tears streaming down his cheeks, and he doesn't even know why. He glances down at the Jeff-Thing's charred-to-a-crisp corpse and begins to laugh even harder.

"I don't . . . know . . . why . . . I'm laughing . . . so hard," Mac wheezes, wiping tears out of his eyes.

"Me either," Joey sobs with laughter, his face lobster pink. "I can't . . . stop."

Kyle pokes at the vanquished . . . zombie, or whatever, with his broken bat. "I can't stop." One of the thing's brittle fingers cracks and breaks off, and that sends the three of them into another fit of hysterics.

Kyle joins the other two in the corner of the lockerroom and collapses, still laughing, hysterical laughter clawing its way out of his throat, until the laughs start to sound more like shrieks. 

The clubhouse door swings open, and any and all laughter is immediately silenced.

\--

"The screams are getting louder," Brian winces, trying to shut them out. "We've got to hurry before we're too late."

"I think they're coming from the . . . clubhouse!" Huddy says, pointing. 

Sure enough, Brian and Tim have found their way back to the clubhouse.

And sure enough, the shrieks are getting louder.

Tim grabs onto the handle of the door and looks back at Brian. "Ready?"

Brian nods. "Open the door. I'm ready, Huddy."

Huddy pushes the door open.

\--

Joey, Mac and Kyle stare up at the two dirty, blood-covered figures standing in front of them, clutching broken baseball bats in their hands. 

"H-H-Huddy?" Joey stammers, clutching onto the front of Mac's shirt. "Is th-that you?"

"Huddy!" Kyle leaps up and throws his arms around Huddy, clinging to him like a drowning man clinging to a lifeboat. "You're alive!"

Brian looks around and spots the pile of ashes in the middle of the clubhouse where Jeff's body had been. ". . . What happened?" he asks, weakly.

"It attacked us!" Kyle cries.

"Jeff attacked you?" Brian asks.

"No, the . . . zombie thing. Whatever it was, it attacked us." Kyle pointed at the smoking remains. "Joey had the bright idea to set it on fire."

Brian bursts into tears.

Kyle moves to put an arm around Brian. "I'm sorry, Brian."

Brian pulls away and crawls into his locker. Kyle looks at Huddy for help. "Let him go," Huddy says, shaking his head. "Just let him go."

Kyle looks after Brian, curled in his locker and clutching a bloody jersey to his face, rubbing it against his cheek. "Are you sure that's such a good idea? What if there's something in the blood . . ."

Huddy starts. "Brian, give me that jersey," he says.

"No," Brian sniffles. "It's Jeff's."

"There's a clean one here in his locker." Huddy brings over one of Jeff's unworn jerseys, crisp and starched from the dry cleaners. "This one's all nice and clean. Give me that old dirty one."

"But that one doesn't smell like Jeff," Brian sighs.

"That one's dirty and gross, Brian," Huddy says, putting his hands over Brian's, trying to pry his fingers apart. 

"No!" Brian jumps out of his locker, clutching Jeff's jersey to his chest. "Leave us alone!"

Kyle and Joey share looks. "Brian, Jeff is gone."

"Leave us alone!" Brian clings to the jersey, looking from Tim to Kyle to Joey to Mac. "You want to keep us apart, but you'll never succeed! I'll never let you take him from me!" He turns and runs out of the lockerroom.

"I suppose we should go after him," Mac says.

"Gee, I wonder. _Genius_." Kyle whacks Mac in the back of the head. 

Mac rubs the back of his head and glares at Kyle. "Not my fault." He pauses, and then glares at the two of them. "My booty is gone!"

Joey gives Mac a slap on his behind. "Looks like it's still in place."

"Shut _up_!"

\--

Huddy, clutching onto his blood-stained bat, heart thumping wildly, puts a hand against the wall and feels wetness. "Hope t'God that's water," he mutters to himself, pulling his hand back and inspecting it. Sure enough, it's water, but it's tinted pink. Tim swallows and glances up.

An arm is hanging from a maze of metal pipes, and he swallows thickly, fighting back the sickening feeling creeping up from his gut. He reaches up with his bat and jabs at the arm, hand flapping limply.

The hand grabs onto the end of the bat and holds it firmly in place. "Ow! Stop it!" Two eyes peer out at Huddy from the rafters.

Huddy tugs on the bat, hysteria growing in his chest and clawing its way out of his throat. "Wh-who's up there?" he stammers.

"It's me, Smoltzy." John Smoltz shows his face, and surprisingly, save the one sore on his neck, he looks relatively . . . unaffected.

"How's it you got the skin disease or whatever, but you ain't a zombie like the rest'a them?" Huddy asks.

Smoltz leaps down from the pipes, and Huddy takes a step back when he sees the red tomahawk clutched in his hand. He raises the tomahawk in his fist and Huddy takes another step back, squeezing his hands around the barrel of his bat. "That's where you're mistaken, Timmy," Smoltz says softly, his voice hushed like the rattle of a snake before it attacks.

"What do you mean, Smoltzy?" he asks, every muscle in his body achingly tight with tension, screaming at him to _Run! Get the fuck out of here!_

Smoltz approaches him slowly, his left leg sort of dragging, and Huddy notices for the first time that Smoltzy's eyes look milky, glassed over. "You know what I mean, Timmy," he says, raising the tomahawk.

Huddy turns and runs, clutching onto his baseball bat, squeezing it into dust. "Don't look back, don't look back, don't look back," he whispers to himself, footfalls on concrete sounding an awful lot like gunshots. 

He looks back.

Smoltzy grabs onto his neck and squeezes, lifting him clear off the ground (which, albeit, isn't hard considering Huddy is not exactly tall). He writhes and squirms, struggling to get out of Smoltzy's iron-tight grip.

"Gotcha now, Hudson." Smoltzy squeezes tighter, the muscles in his arm rippling, possessing an iron-clad strength Huddy is fairly certain Smoltzy did not possess when he was . . . human. Or alive. Smoltzy smiles at him, all teeth. "Say goodnight, Gracie."

\--

The three of them finally spot Brian on his knees in right field, Jeff's blood-stained jersey laid out in front of him. Kyle leads the pack, approaching him slowly, wielding his nunchuks, half-afraid that Brian's begun to turn into . . . whatever the others turned into.

Kyle steps up behind him and raises his nunchuks, but Joey pulls him back. "We don't want to _kill_ him," he hisses. 

"We don't? What if he turns into one of _them_?" Kyle whispers back. "We can't take the risk!"

"I'd like to give Brian the benefit of the doubt before you club him over the head, Tarzan." Joey pushes Kyle out of the way and puts his hand on Brian's shoulder.

Brian gasps and turns around. "Oh. Hey." He wipes at his eyes and manages a smile. "Sorry. I kinda wanted some alone time with Jeff."

Kyle and Mac share looks. "Jeff? But Jeff is -- " Kyle is shut up by an elbow to the ribs.

"That's okay, Brian. We know you needed your space," Joey says, offering him a smile.

Brian pats the jersey down against the thick green grass that Jeff had made his home this Spring Training, and many Spring Trainings prior. "I think I'm okay now. I'm . . . I'm gonna leave his jersey out here." Brian gets to his feet and brushes his hands off on his pants.

"I think he'd have liked that," Joey says, slipping an arm around Brian's shoulders. "C'mon, let's go find Tim."

Brian and the three rookies turn and head back for the dugout, when Kyle stops abruptly, gasping in horror.

"What's wrong?" Joey asks, turning back to look at Jeff's jersey.

"J-Joey, it-it's Brian!" He points at Brian, his hand shaking. "Look at his neck!"

Sure enough, Brian has teeth marks on his neck. A small chunk of flesh has been excised, leaving behind a raw wound.

"Brian, when did you get bit?" Joey asks, trying not to let his fear show.

Brian reaches up and touches the bitemark. "Before Jeff . . . Before Jeff, um, wasn't Jeff anymore, we were sort of. You know. And he bit me."

"Was this before or after he changed?" Joey asks, tightening his hand around his broken-off bat handle.

"I don't remember," Brian murmurs, eyes shading over, as he bites down on his bottom lip, deep in thought. "I don't remember."

"I vote we kill him now!" Kyle raises his nunchuks and charges, but Joey pushes him aside.

"Killing him isn't the answer, jackass," Joey snaps. "There must be a way to reverse the effects."

"That's right! I had gone to get the antidote, but I grabbed the wrong vial!" Brian exclaims, pointing straight in the air. "There's an antidote somewhere!"

"How did you end up grabbing the wrong vial in the first place?" Mac asks.

"Well, I wasn't really paying attention," Brian admits, blushing. "I was preoccupied."

"You were horny," Mac says. 

"I was preoccupied." Brian shoots him a glare.

"Horny." Mac grins. "At least we know there's a cure out there. D'you remember where you found the vials?"

Brian furrows his brow. "I think it was in Doc Elliot's office . . . He had this toy science kit on his desk, with vials in it . . . Said he was making up some special medicine when I went in to get my elbow iced last week."

"To Doc's office!" Kyle pumps his fist in the air.

\--

Huddy swings his arms wildly, trying to catch Smoltz in the head with a punch, but his aim is off, and Smoltz dodges the weak blows easily.

"It's going to be fun watching you die, Tim," Smoltzy grins, a toothy, unnatural smile. 

Huddy can feel the strength ebbing from his body, and his eyelids feel heavy, so heavy. _Maybe if I just close my eyes . . ._

"Smoltzy! No! Let him go!" 

Huddy jerks against Smoltzy's grip, opening his eyes, trying to focus on the people standing behind him. 

"Let him go, or you'll be sorry!" Kyle steps forward, swinging his makeshift nunchuks in the air, high above his head. 

Smoltz turns his head -- 180 degrees. "I think not," he says, still smiling, all teeth.

Kyle swings his nunchuks at Smoltz's head, but he ducks out of the way, and Huddy falls to the ground in a heap. "Prepare to die!"

Joey tosses Kyle the aerosol can and lighter. "Set it on fire! Set it on fire!"

Huddy rolls away from the fray, holding a hand to his neck. 

Smoltzy turns and rushes Kyle, as he fumbles with the lighter and aerosol can, his hands shaking. "I can't get it to light!" Kyle wails.

"Hurry!" Joey tosses his broken-off bat handle to Kyle. "Stab him! Hit him! Do something!"

Mac digs around in the back pocket of his pants and pulls out a crumpled package of Cracker Jacks. He pours a handful and steps between Kyle and the charging Smoltz. "Hey, Smoltzy!"

Smoltz stops and looks at Mac. "Yeah?" he asks.

"Fetch!" Mac tosses the handful of Cracker Jacks down the hall, praying that it will be enough to distract Smoltz, so that they can escape.

Smoltz turns and scrambles to his knees to gather up the Cracker Jacks, and Mac points to the exit. "Come on, guys! That should keep him busy!"

Joey raises the bat handle. "We have to destroy him! Or else he'll keep coming back!"

"We can't waste any time," Kyle cries, tugging on Joey's arm. "We'll deal with him later. We have to get out of here." He pulls on Joey, tugging him toward the exit.

"What if he comes back? Why not just kill him now?" Joey asks.

"We'll deal with that when it comes. Let's get out of here!" Kyle pulls Joey along, and Joey casts one last, lingering glance after Zombie Smoltz, before following the others. 

\--

Brian pushes open the door to Doc's office, wincing at the sight of Chipper's bloody corpse, its skull smashed in. Its fingers are curled in a death grip around the second vial.

"Well, go on. Take it from him," Macay prompts.

"I'm not touching him," Brian snaps. "If you want the damn vial so badly, _you_ take it from him." 

Macay crouches down on his haunches and leans over Chipper's prostrate body, inching his fingers across the dead third baseman's chest, to the vial clutched in its hand. Mac closes his hand around it and tugs. "He's not givin' it up," he huffs, tugging harder. "Damn it, Chipper."

Kyle raises his nunchuks in the air, swinging them above his head. "Make way for Kyle." Mac darts out of the way and Kyle begins to beat at Chipper's gnarled hand with his makeshift nunchuks. "C'mon, you bastard. Give it up! Not like you'll be needing it!"

There's a loud crack, and at first, Brian thinks Kyle's broken the vial, but instead, he sees Chipper's brittle fingers splinter and break, and the precious vial falls free.

Kyle bends over and picks it up. "Why was Doc making antidotes for skin eating viruses, by the way?" he wonders out loud.

"I dunno. It's best if we don't think about it too much," Mac says.

Kyle pockets the antidote and motions to the others. "C'mon, let's go find Smoltzy, and let's get the fuck _out_ of here!"

Brian slaps his hand across his face. "Aw, shit, I left Huddy behind. I gotta go look for him, guys."

"Well, we'll try and flag down a rescue party. My TV says they're comin' in from the league offices. And local yahoos are rounding up as many fat rednecks with guns an' sendin' 'em down here," Mac says, toting his TV.

"Sweet! I'll catch up with you guys later!" Brian turns and runs off in search of Huddy.

\-- 

Huddy, with bat resting across his knees, sits slumped against the dugout bench, body so achingly tense, he feels like every muscle in his whole goddamn tired body is going to snap. 

He hears a noise that sounds like footsteps behind him and he closes his hands around the bat handle, leaping to his feet and pivoting in one fluid motion.

"Bri!" Huddy drops the bat and opens his arms, and Brian hurtles himself at him, locking his arms around Huddy's waist, burying his cheek against Huddy's shoulder.

"We got the antidote," Brian squeaks, breathlessly. "Everything's gonna be okay!" 

Huddy squeezes Brian and steps back, a big white grin cracking across his dirt-and-blood-smudged face. "That's great news, kid. Let's go find the guys."

Brian nods, bending over to pick up Huddy's bat. "I hear a rescue party's comin' down with a vigilante group. Fat rednecks with guns, or so Mac says."

Huddy reaches out and ruffles Brian's hair. "Never been happier to hear about fat rednecks with guns than I am right now," he sighs.

Huddy and Brian head back for the others, moving through the bowels of Disney's Wide World of Sports Complex, their steps light, arms swinging. The promise of rescue is enough to put any nerves at ease.

Brian tries to keep his focus, tries not to notice the blood on the walls, charges full speed ahead, thinking only of administering the antidote and saving the day. 

Making up for his failure to save Jeff.

Brian's moving with such a purpose, that Huddy is having a hard time matching Brian stride for stride, legs too short to keep up.

The two of them round a corner and run smack dab into Smoltzy.

Brian curls his hand around the vial of antidote. "Hey, Smoltzy. We got somethin' for ya."

Smoltz glances at them, eyes dark. "I don't think I want anything you got," he sneers, raising his bloody hands. "Except maybe your brains."

Brian fumbles a syringe out of his pants pocket and stabs it into the vial, filling the plunger with liquid. "Hey, Smoltzy." When Smoltz turns to him, Brian stabs the needle into Smoltzy's bare neck.

Brian expells the contents of the syringe into Smoltz's neck, before pulling the needle out, chewing on his bottom lip, wondering how long it takes to take effect. 

Smoltz claps a hand over his throat and twists his face into a grimace, staggering to his knees.

"Brian, I think you just killed him," Huddy hisses.

"No! This was the right vial!" Brian cries, tearfully. "This is our only hope! It _has_ to be the right one!"

Smoltz falls facedown at their feet, still clutching his throat. 

"Ah, shit." Huddy leans forward and presses his fingers to Smoltzy's neck, feeling for a pulse, stupidly, before remembering that, yeah, Smoltzy is a fucking zombie, and pulls his hand back. 

Smoltzy sits up and Brian and Huddy leap backward, hearts leaping into throats. Brian brandishes the needle, ready to stab him again if need be. Idol and former teammate be damned; Smoltzy is the enemy now.

Smoltzy's cheeks have regained their color and the teethmarks have faded into dull scars. He blinks and rubs his hand against his throat. "Hm. That was weird." He flexes his hands and looks down, inspecting the blood caked underneath his fingernails.

"Dude, how'd you do that," Huddy asks, slackjawed with surprise. "He was a _zombie_."

"I guess this stuff really does work . . ." Brian clutches the vial in his hand.

Smoltzy pulls himself to his feet and stretches out, before regarding Huddy and Brian. "What're you guys looking at me like that for?" he asks.

Huddy and Brian share _looks_ , before Huddy finally speaks. "Uh, are you okay? Feelin' alright?" he asks.

Smoltz shrugs. "I've felt better. Kinda feel like I got run over by a semi." Smoltz shakes the cobwebs out of his head, rubbing a hand over his forehead. "What happened to everyone else?"

"You don't remember?" asks Huddy.

Smoltzy shakes his head. "Nope. Everything kinda faded to black when Reitsma chomped on my jugular." Smoltzy reaches up and touches his throat where the faded teethmarks remain, feeling nothing but relatively smooth skin. "Weird."

"That must've been when you died," Brian points out helpfully.

"Then how'm I talking to you if I'm dead?" Smoltzy asks.

"I don't know . . . C'mere." Huddy motions for Smoltz to come closer and he does.

Brian barely has time to react before Smoltz has the broken end of a baseball bat sticking out of his throat. 

"Why did you do that," Brian wails. "We _saved_ him!"

"He was fucking _dead_!" Huddy cries, jerking the broken end of the bat out of Smoltzy's neck. "We couldn't trust him. We can't trust _any_ of them."

Brian looks at Smoltzy's body, his rosy cheeks, the flow of blood. Both Brian and Huddy watch on in morbid fascination as the flow of blood becomes less and less, until it stops completely. "That wouldn't happen if he wasn't living when you killed him."

"But you can't bring people back from the dead!" Huddy says, grabbing onto Brian's arm.

"And there's no such thing as zombies," Brian fires back, pulling away from him and stepping over Smoltzy's body. "I'm going to find the others."

"Brian, wait. I'm sorry." Huddy follows after him, grabbing onto his wrist and pulling him back. "I'm sorry, but we couldn't take the chance that it didn't work."

"Well, what about the others who _need_ the antidote? Are you going to kill all of _them_ too?" Brian asks, wiping at his eyes furiously.

"I'm sorry, Brian. I had to do it." Huddy reaches to touch Brian's shoulder, but Brian jerks away, mouth twtching and hands twisting into fists.

"How do I know _you're_ not one of them? How do I know I can trust you?" Brian asks, shakily. "How do I know? Maybe _I_ should kill _you_."

"Brian, don't be ridiculous!" Huddy tries to laugh but it sounds more like a sob.

"You fucking _killed_ him," Brian screams, pushing Huddy in the chest hard, blinded with rage, wanting to just lash out and hurt.

Huddy grabs him by the wrists, stilling him. "Brian, don't do this, okay? We can't do this. We can't fall apart. Not now."

"I'm not fucking falling apart! I've already fallen apart, Huddy! My best friend is dead -- because you killed him! My fucking idol is dead -- because you killed him! Reitsma, Gilly, Chipper -- all dead! I don't think you can blame me for having a pretty fucking bad day!" Brian tries to pull his wrists out of Huddy's grip, but the pitcher won't let up.

"Brian, get a fucking grip, okay? We can't _have_ this," Huddy says firmly, tugging on his wrists. "You are absolutely _not_ allowed to freak out on me."

Brian kicks at his shin. "Fuck, Huddy, I -- "

Huddy pushes his hand against Brian's cheek and slaps him once, twice, hard enough to sting. "Shut up, Brian," he hisses. "Get ahold of yourself, okay? We have to be strong."

"I don't want to be strong anymore! I want this to just end! Fuck being strong! I don't _care_ anymore!" Brian tries to push Huddy away, but he won't let go, still holding onto Brian's chin with his hand.

***

 

 

 

 

 

Huddy, bat resting across his shoulder, slumps back against the wall, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. Brian examines his exposed throat, telling himself he's looking for sores or wounds, hand curling around his broken bat handle. 

But, nothing. Huddy's neck is clear and pale, and Brian leans in, swipes his tongue along the pitcher's carotid artery, pauses, feeling the steady thump of Huddy's heartbeat under his tongue.

Huddy shifts and murmurs, "What'cha doin'?" 

Brian tastes the bitter tang of blood on his tongue. "Just checking to make sure," he says.

Huddy regards Brian warily, hands instinctively knotting around the baseball bat. "Checking to make sure of what?"

"That you were still alive." Brian rests his nose in the valley between Huddy's shoulder and neck, shuddering against Huddy, feeling the tension unwind from around his heart, and filter through him, out the tips of his fingers, dissolving in the air around them.

Huddy loops a loose arm around Brian's shoulders, curling his hand in the fabric of Brian's stained t-shirt. "Why'd you think otherwise?" he asks, leaning on Brian for support, as Brian tucks his thumb into Huddy's beltloop.

"You can never be too sure." Brian drags Huddy away from the smoking shell of the infield, toward the outfield grass, wrapping his hand around Huddy's wrist, running his fingertip over the tattoo on his forearm. "I bet you'll have some stories to tell your kids."

Huddy's knees buckle and he flops down into the soft green infield grass, Jeff's jersey far out in right field, as crisp and clean as they left it, winking under the hot Florida sun. Huddy shades a hand over his eyes. "I don't think I'm gonna be tellin' my kids any of these stories," he mutters, patting a patch of grass beside him. "I'm gonna keep these to myself."

Brian joins him, crossing his legs, taking up a blade of grass between his thumb and forefinger, turning it. Brian gnaws on his bottom lip thoughtfully before speaking. "I think that'd be the best thing, really," he says. "There are so many things I've seen that I don't wanna ever see again, and that I don't wanna remember . . . And if you tell people, no one's ever gonna forget. _You_ ain't gonna forget 'em, and the people you tell 'em to sure ain't . . . It's just better that way." Brian feels a callused hand close around his wrist. 

"Tell 'em to me," Huddy says, pulling on Brian's wrist, pulling Brian down next to him in the grass. "Tell me your stories."

"But then you'll remember 'em too." Brian rests his head on Huddy's shoulder.

"And you won't hafta remember 'em alone," Huddy says.

Brian sighs and turns on his side, curling closer, pulling Huddy's arm around his shoulders. "Well, okay." Brian feels Huddy's mouth on his forehead, his breath tangling in his hair, and he feels safe. The grass tickles his bare cheek, and he shivers, and Huddy's arm tightens around him. "It was right after the game, and I'd just gone back to the clubhouse . . ."

\-- 

After Brian is finished telling the long, bloody story, he and Huddy lay out on their backs in the grass. The sky is a dusky, cobalt sort of color now, careening toward evening, the climate dropped from warm and humid to a bit chilly. Huddy squeezes his hand around Brian's.

"No one would believe us if we _did_ tell the world," he muses, as Brian tries his best not to nod off until Kyle, Joey and Mac come back with the rescue squad. 

"It's okay. We know the whole, real story. That's all that matters," Brian murmurs, sleepily.

As the sun finally dips down below the horizon, the lightbanks turn on in a great bright wave, and Brian can hear the low buzz in his ears as the stadium thrums to life, last stand against an unseen enemy. Brian and Huddy sit up, as the lights begin to shine, and cling to each other.

The seats are filled with the dead; among them, the three rookies and the missing rescue party.

Huddy closes his hand around the bat and stands up. "I guess we've got some more work to do."

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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